


The Coin Toss

by TheFledglingDM



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst and Humor, Bethany and Carver Hawke Live, Blue-Purple Hawke (Dragon Age), Canon-Typical Violence, Deeper Dive into DA II Themes, Drinking, F/M, Found Family, Friends to Lovers, Leandra Hawke Lives, Multi, Sibling Love, Slow Burn, Swearing, Warrior Hawke (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-05-20 21:28:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19384993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFledglingDM/pseuds/TheFledglingDM
Summary: “When faced with two choices, simply toss a coin. It works not because it settles the question for you, but because in that brief moment when the coin is in the air, you suddenly know what you are hoping for.” This was Malcolm Hawke's most lingering lesson for his eldest daughter.Ten years later, she still finds herself following this advice.





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> me: they don't need yet another dragon age fic that goes over what happened in the game they know 
> 
> me @ myself: but......f e n r i s
> 
> i wanted to write a longer take on the themes of power/fear/oppression/trauma in DA2 so here's my purely self-indulgent fic. pairings will be updated as i figure out who i'm going to toss together in this matchmaker's hell.
> 
> Bethany and Carver live because how about make-believe land has anything you want.

## 

Introduction

“Well, my dear? Which will it be?”

The question was simple, deceptively so. Still, Hawke hesitated, frowning up at her father. He smiled placatingly down at her, his staff slung over his back. In one hand he held a greatsword; in the other, a shortsword. Both were training weapons, cheaply made of pig iron, blunted edges pointing downwards into the dirt.

“Greatsword, obviously,” Carver piped up moodily from his spot cross-legged on the ground to the side of the family training ground. Bethany didn’t even look up from her book when she nudged him with her elbow.

“It’s not your turn.”

“At least I know what I want,” Carver huffed, crossing his arms over his chest and finishing his transformation into a small, cranky pretzel. Bethany met her elder sister’s gaze and sent her a small smile.

It shouldn’t be such a big deal, Hawke knew. It _wasn’t._ She knew how to use a greatsword. She also knew how to use a shortsword. She was decent enough with the pike and spear, and she knew her way around a dagger. Her aim was good with an axe and better with a bow. But this was different. This was her first day using real steel to train with her father. The day she picked the weapon she would use for the rest of her life.

Malcolm Hawke still had that calm, patient smile on his face. _You can always change your mind,_ he’d said. _And I encourage you to keep practicing with all kinds of weapons, as well. You never know when you may need to use something you’re not used to._

But it was the idea of the thing, Hawke reasoned. Her first time deciding what she would spend her next six years training with.

“I don’t know,” Hawke said. She felt, irrationally, like she was about to cry. She glanced to the house, picturing the warm hearth where their mother was darning Carver’s socks under the watchful gaze of the Amell family shield, one of the few things their mother had brought from her home of Kirkwall.

“Then let me help,” Malcom said. Carefully he switched the pommels of each sword into one of his hands and knelt down. Hawke was tall for her age, which put her father’s face below hers. Identical sets of blue eyes met as Malcolm Hawke dug into his pocket to pull out a spare copper.

“See this, my dear?” He asked. He held the copper up to the light. On one side was a profile image in the likeness of His Majesty, King Cailan; the other side was the seal of Ferelden.

“It’s a coin,” Hawke said blankly.

“So it is,” Malcolm said cheerfully. “And I am going to toss it to help you decide. Head, it’s the greatsword. Seal, the shortsword. Whichever it lands on, you study. How does that sound?”

It sounded a bit cheap, Hawke wanted to say, but before she could speak, Malcolm threw the coin in a high arc. Hawke watched it spin, copper edges flashing bronze in the afternoon sun. Suddenly her mind was full of rapid, snapshot images -

_The sharp jabs of the one-handed sword -_

_The steady weight of the shield on her forearm -_

_This would piss off Carver so much and wouldn’t that be funny -_

Malcolm caught the coin and slapped in onto the back of his hand. “Head! Congratulations on the greatsword, my dear.”

He handed the pommel to her, and without thinking, Hawke took it. Its weight felt too much, its blade too long and awkward and bulky in her hands.

_“Boo,”_ Carver was yelling from outside the training circle, and again Hawke was struck with the feeling that she was about to cry.

“But - I don’t want the greatsword,” Hawke said. She scrubbed a fist over her watering eyes. “I want the sword.”

“Is that so?” Malcolm asked. His tone hadn’t changed at all, remaining calm and placid. “Well, then my lesson has hit home.”

“Huh?” Hawke asked. Malcolm took the greatsword out of her hand and replaced it with the short sword. Hawke’s fingers instinctively closed around it, and she lifted it, the metal shining dully in the bright sun. The blade was still heavy, but its heaviness felt right, the muscles in her forearms flexing and wrist locked and steady. Her stomach started to settle.

“Oh, yes,” Malcolm said. He reached for his eldest daughter’s free hand, faced in palm-up, and dropped the copper into her palm. “Do you understand the purpose of this exercise?”

“I thought it was to help me decide,” Hawke said. “But I wanted something different than it gave me.”

“It _did_ help,” Malcolm explained. “If you can make an important decision with the flip of a coin, then the decision isn’t all that important, is it? But you see, when faced with two choices, simply toss a coin. It works not because it settles the question for you, but because in that brief moment when the coin is in the air, you suddenly know what you are hoping for. Do you understand this?”

Hawke mulled this over. “Yes, father.”

“Good,” Malcolm said. He pressed his lips to his daughter’s forehead and stood to his full height. For a moment, the Ferelden afternoon sun shone about his head like a halo. “Now, take that sword through your exercises. We’ll make a fearsome warrior of you yet.”


	2. One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: mentions of death and discussions of grief this chapter.

## 

One

_Ten Years Later_

If Hawke could have kept her legs underneath her, she would have marched above deck to give the ship captain a piece of her mind. A week and a half in the brig of the _Gift Giver_ \- which, given the vast open space and oddly-placed boards and poorly stashed chains Bethany discovered, gave Hawke an idea what kind of _gifts_ this ship had been transporting, and she would have knocked out the captain’s teeth for a second reason - was wearing on them all, but on their mother the most. For now she was laying her head on Carver’s lap while her only son slept sitting up, his arm still hung in a sling to keep his broken collarbone in place following their run-in with the Darkspawn shortly before their escape from the Wilds. His good arm was around Bethany’s shoulders while she lay her head on her twin’s shoulder before Hawke awoke her for the second watch.

Initially, Hawke had thought setting a watch on their own family had been overkill, but when another group had discovered the family jewelry missing, she had been forced to concede. Which was how she found herself sitting side-by-side in the dark with their new companion, Aveline. Hawke was fair-skinned, but Aveline was _pale_ , her face and bare arms almost shining in what starlight made its way through the grate that served as the door belowdecks. She had released her orange hair from its standard ponytail and let it fall over one shoulder. She was supposed to be on watch with Hawke, but from the way she was holding Wesley’s templar shield to her chest, green eyes staring sightlessly ahead, Hawke knew she was deaf to the world around them. She couldn’t find it in her to resent that.

_Wesley_. His first instinct upon seeing Bethany had been to spout some Templar party line about mages and the Maker, sending her siblings to stand in front of her, Hawke’s hand on her sword and Carver’s to the pommel of his greatsword. True to his word, the moment he’d had the opportunity to, he had taken up that massive sword and never let it down. Hawke still teased him about overcompensating every chance she got.

Hawke surely would have not hesitated to throw down with the man if it had come to blows, but she never would have wished his death upon him. Especially one so painful and horrifying as the Blight.

_“It’s your decision,”_ Hawke had told Aveline at the end. Resign him to the slow death of the Blight, or kill him out of mercy, or let a stranger strike the final blow? Aveline had touched Wesley’s face one last time, her expression full of sorrow and aching tenderness, and Hawke had looked away long before Aveline’s dagger pierced her husband’s heart.

“I don’t resent you for it,” Aveline said aloud suddenly, snapping Hawke from her thoughts. From the damp tracks down her cheeks and the way Aveline was clutching at Wesley’s shield, their thoughts had taken a similar trajectory. “For...for reminding me what needed to be done.”

Hawke shrugged. “I didn’t tell you anything you didn’t know yourself.”

“No,” Aveline agreed slowly. “But I did need to hear it.”

“I’m sorry,” Hawke said again. She wasn’t sure what she was apologizing for, really - for not getting out of the Wilds before he was infected? For threatening to gut him like a fish if he touched Bethany? For leaving him in a shallow, rock filled grave with nothing but the mark of the Maker scratched in the dirt above his head and a few flowers Bethany had plucked from the road? For being willing to do it if Aveline couldn’t?

“Thank you,” Aveline said. “You know…” She hesitated. “You know I never would have let him touch Bethany, right?”

At first, Hawke hadn’t been sure. But Hawke had watched the way Aveline cleared her throat loudly and flexed a bicep when a few sailors were eyeing Bethany’s pretty, young face and low-cut corset too closely.

“I know now,” she said.

“And thank you for taking me along with you,” She added. “If I hadn’t met you - “

“You’d be Blighting the countryside with your husband?” Hawke said before she could stop herself. Horrified, she slapped a palm over her mouth. Aveline looked briefly stricken, but then her face split in a wide smile and she let out a surprised, undignified snort.

“Hawke, that’s _awful_ ,” She chastised, but she was smiling for the first time since Hawke had met her. The expression instantly softened her features, creasing her freckled cheeks and the outer corners of her eyes. She looked years younger when she smiled.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” Hawke said, waving a hand. Aveline laughed again until someone shushed them from the shadows. Hawke bit her lip to quiet her lingering giggles. Aveline’s face sobered too quickly.

“And thank you -”

“Are you going to spend the entire voyage thanking me for things?”

“No, I’m getting them all out at once when Carver can’t hear, now shut up and let me finish.”

“Ooh, getting all the credit and Carver none? Lavish me.”

“Shut up,” Aveline said, smiling despite herself. “Thanks for listening.”

Hawke knocked her shoulder against Aveline’s. “Anytime.”

And she meant it.

~

Leandra Amell, despite her greying hair and the lines forming around her amber eyes, still maintained the poise and grace of a lady of noble birth. Back straight, shoulders squared, head held high. She always knew what to say, how to cajole for lower prices in the market, how to flatter, what the best fashions were (and how to get them for the best price, with an apostate husband and daughter in tow), which fork and knife to use with each meal. She raised her children to say _please_ and _thank you_ and _sir_ and _ma’am_ and _elder_ , how to take care of their bumps and bruises when they couldn’t risk using magic or when it just wasn’t quite necessary ( _Carver, you’re fine, you big baby, put a rag on it and don’t tell mother, your nose already looked like that and this will honestly make it better, you’re welcome -_ )

“Are you _fucking kidding me,_ Gamlen? We just spent two _Maker-forsaken_ weeks in this _goddamn_ brig just to get here, and you tell me the family estate is _gone?_ What did you _do, _you absolute buffoon? You clod?”__

____

____

Leandra Amell also taught her children to _swear._

Hawke and Carver were watching this display with the first grins that they’d worn in weeks. Bethany shifted nervously from foot to foot, eyes glancing around at every face and every armored figure. Aveline looked stricken, looking between the usually polite, soft spoken, diplomatic _Madame Amell_ (which was all Aveline had called Leandra since they met) and her brother, Gamlen.

“It’s not my fault,” the man said, his tone a mix of defensive and wheedling. “I, ah - I had some _investments,_ you see, and they didn’t go as planned, so the house, is, well…it’s _gone.”_

“Gone?” Leandra echoed. “What, you blew it up? Burned it to the ground for the insurance?”

“No!” Gamlen insisted. “It’s still standing, but it’s no longer ours. It’s gone.”

“But - ” Leandra’s mouth worked noiselessly. “But our parents! What about their will? What about our family name?”

“The name Amell doesn’t mean what it used to,” Gamlen hissed. Leandra recoiled slightly. Hawke could imagine: the love story of the eldest Amell girl and her mage lover twisted sour by high society gossips. Gamell was dressed in worn cotton and wool, patched at the elbows and stained in the armpits. He shared their mother’s hair and amber eyes - the same ones she had given her two younger children - but he was in need of a fresh shave. “I can’t just wave my hand and speak some pretty words and all will be well.”

“So we squat here?” Carver asked. “And wait for the next ship out?”

“No!” Leandra insisted. “We stay _together_.”

“We didn’t spend three weeks in that ship just to be turned away now,” Hawke agreed. “C’mon, Gamlen. What are our options?”

Gamlen looked like he wanted to protest the familiarity, but then he saw the ice in Hawke’s blue eyes. “I had some ideas about...greasing some palms, if you will. But it’s going to cost you.”

“Cost us what?” Carver asked suspiciously.

Gamlen sighed, glancing uneasily at Leandra. “I’ve two options for you: the Red Iron, and...well, I can’t remember the name, but their business is a bit more low-key, if you catch my - ”

Hawke never quite caught whatever Gamlen was going to offer, because it was then that Leandra started in on her brother again. Getting a sense that this was going to be a while, Hawke turned to her siblings and Aveline. “Thoughts?”

“I want to sink my fist into his face,” Carver said immediately, shooting their uncle a mutinous look.

“ _Helpful_ thoughts, Carver,” Hawke elaborated. “Though I’m with you on that.”

“Do we have a choice?” Bethany asked. Her eyes flicked over Carver’s shoulder again. “I just think the sooner we get in, the sooner we get away from those guards.”

“I won’t incur debt on your behalf,” Aveline said. “I’ll do...something else?”

“Strapping gal like you?” Hawke asked. “I’m sure these folks would love to have you.”

Aveline rolled her eyes. “Point taken.”

“I suppose we have to,” Carver said. “Where, though? These Red Iron blokes, or the smugglers? With mercenaries, we pick who we work for, yeah?”

“I believe so,” Aveline agreed slowly.

“Yes, but what kind of _work_ will we be doing?” Bethany asked, worrying her lower lip. “Escorting people and caravans, collecting money, personal bodyguarding?”

“At least,” Carver said. He and Bethany exchanged a look, that wordless communication that Hawke called Twin Telepathy passing between them. His face darkened. “At least.”

Hawke frowned. She, Carver, and Aveline had been soldiers for Ferelden; the two Hawke warriors had been part of the last stand for Lothering, keeping the Darkspawn at bay until the families that could be saved got out. Bethany had hailed fire and ice and lightning down around them, offering support. She fought from a distance. And she only killed those who deserved it.

While Carver, Bethany, and Aveline talked, and Leandra and Gamlen yelled, and their fellow refugees around them crowded and cajoled and begged to be let in - for food, for water, for medicine - Hawke stepped away to a quiet spot that overlooked the docks. She dug her hand into her pocket and pulled out a copper. The metal shone dully in her palm, rounded edges smoothed by time and wear from years spent jostling in her pocket. The cameo of King Cailan’s smiling profile sent a pang of grief through her. Odd, that this reminder of her dead king made her feel more grief than the destruction of Lothering.

(“I feel numb, too,” Bethany had confessed when Hawke told her about it. “We lost Lothering and so many friends. The burning fields. The bodies - ” She cut herself off. “I didn’t cry. But one night I saw a bush of Andraste’s Grace, trampled, and I cried so hard I thought I would throw up.”

“You never told me that,” Hawke said, her hand freezing in the air. A drop of whatever gruel they’d been given for dinner slopped messily back into the tin bowl.

“I wasn’t ready to talk,” Bethany said simply. “Carver was with me, though. He held me until I could breathe again.”

Hawke glanced across the room to where Carver sat with their mother. Despite the way he hovered a good four inches taller than Leandra, even while sitting, he sat stoically still when Leandra reached over to dab a bit of stew off of his chin before it dripped onto his bad arm. Saving this to tease him for later, Hawke felt a smile that had nothing to do with making fun of her little brother curl her lips. “Softie.”

“You both are,” Bethany said. She pointed a spoon at Hawke in mock accusation. “You act big and tough but you’re just as soft and sweet as he is.”

“Am not.”

“I’m sorry, who used all of my elderflower conditioner, body wash, _and_ lotion?”

“I told you, it was Tiny. He likes to feel pretty, too.”

“The dog used all of my products?” Bethany asked, quirking an eyebrow and pointing to the mabari. He lay in front of their mother, napping on guard duty with his big tongue lolling out of his mouth.

Hawke bit back a smile. “Yes.”

“And he snuck all of my chocolate truffles I was saving for my monthly?”

“Carver.”

“Did Carver borrow my silk robe when he went on a ‘hunting trip’ with the blacksmith’s son? Don’t answer that,” Bethany interrupted before Hawke could reply. “I know it was you ‘sharpening his sword,’ so to speak.”

Hawke laughed, letting up and pulling Bethany into a one-armed hug and pressing a loud smooch to her sister’s temple. “And I know _you_ took my lacy brassiere when you went on that picnic with the baker’s son.”

“I still win,” Bethany retorted, and she lay her head on her sister’s muscled shoulder.)

A pang went through Hawke’s gut at this last reminder of her father and his best lesson. She knew, without a doubt, that father would know what to do in this conundrum. With a tired sigh, she twitched her thumb, sending the coin up in a high arc, thinking:

_It will be easier to keep a low profile while smuggling than serving as mercenaries -_

_Smuggling will better suit their general lack of willingness to kill in cold blood -_

The coin dropped into Hawke’s palm, and she pocketed it without looking at whether it was head or seal.

She strolled back over to her siblings and Aveline and exchanged a nod. Then, interrupting their mother calling Gamlen a brainless twit, she asked, “Where do we find this smuggler, uncle?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look. look. no one can tell me that leandra "ran off with an apostate mage" amell didn't have a spirited streak.
> 
> also if anyone knows any good nb terms of respect for adults lmk but "elder" was the best i could do, i'm sorry.


	3. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter follows the adventures of the Hawke siblings through that first year in Kirkwall. Content warnings for depictions of grief and canon-typical violence. 
> 
> also this is so long because the hawke siblings are fueled by The Cain Instinct

## 

Two

__

_Month One_

The lower section of Kirkwall, affectionately referred to as Lowtown, was _disgusting_. It wasn’t as vile as Darktown, that dusty mud pit in what remained of Kirkwall’s old mining tunnels, but Lowtown’s occasional breezes only served to waft about the scents of piss, unwashed bodies, and bilgewater dumped from the docked ships. In the morning, Hawke awoke in her straw pallet that she shared with Bethany to the sound of shouts as docksman unloaded their supplies; during the day she heard the clamor of the marketplace; in the night she heard drunks rambling their way past their home and the occasional street fight. One time she’d had to sic Tiny on a prick who couldn’t hold it and decided to piss on their wall (heh. Prick. Piss.).

Leandra had almost had a conniption when she found out that her children would need to spend a solid year working for the smuggler Athenril to pay off their debts. Thus began the almost-weekly rows between her mother and uncle, and it was just more noise that Hawke needed to filter lest she just start hacking her sword at the wall.

Which was why Hawke had left the house to mend her leather armor, sitting in the afternoon shade on Gamlen’s doorstep. The air was slightly cooler there, even if she still felt hot and sticky from the muggy day. She wrinkled her nose as she slowly, painstakingly poked her poor sewing needle through three layers of (admittedly thin) leather to add this patch. She stabbed her finger again and swore softly to herself.

“You think that’ll ever be us?”

Hawke looked up. Carver stood silhouetted in the door frame, half his face cast into shadow. He shut the door behind him, softening the voices of Gamlen and Leandra’s yelling a little bit. He leaned against the wall. “Shouting and screaming like that?”

“We’re like that now, Carver,” Hawke teased. Carver’s face darkened, and he slid his back down the wall to sit shoulder-to-shoulder with her.

“I know,” he said, his tone uncharacteristically serious. “But we’re different than that, you know? Like, I tug your hair and steal the last of the chicken and hide your whetstone -”

“That was _you?_ Where is it, you lout? I’ve been looking for it for two weeks -”

“The point is,” Carver spoke over her, “What if we had a falling out like they did? What if we get to the point where we just...hated each other?”

Hawke thought for a long moment. True, Carver was a big oaf, but he was _her_ big oaf. Her little brother, big oaf. She had partnered with him on patrols, stood back-to-back with him on the battlefield, joined him in pranking their fellow soldiers and sister, straightened his tie at old Ferelden festivals. She jeered at him in drinking contests until they were both too drunk to walk home and brought him soup when he was feeling sick.

“We may not always like each other,” Hawke finally said, “But I’ll always love you.”

“Even if I run away with someone?”

“I’d just be amazed a girl likes you,” Hawke said. Carver punched her in the arm.

At that moment Bethany stepped out of the house, hands over her ears and huffing out loudly. “I can’t _believe_ you two just left me in there. What happened to never leave a man behind?”

“Tactical retreat,” Hawke and Carver said in unison. Bethany rolled her eyes and sat on Carver’s other side.

“What were you two talking about?”

“Whether we’re going to end up hating each other like mother and Gamlen,” Hawke answered.

“Your stupid ascot,” Carver said.

Bethany nudged Carver in the side. Carver tugged a lock of Bethany’s hair. Hawke stabbed herself in the finger again and swore. Bethany rolled her eyes and wordlessly took Hawke’s shoddy needlework from her hands and pulled it onto her lap.

For several minutes, the Hawke siblings sat in companionable silence. Finally, Bethany said, “I don’t think they hate each other.”

Hawke raised her eyebrows as the yelling inside struck a fever pitch.

_“You irresponsible little brat - !”_

_“You spoiled, snooty princess - !”_

“You sure about that?” Hawke asked. 

“Of course,” Bethany said. “They grew up together. Despite her reasons and intentions, mother left. Uncle Gamlen was left to take care of our grandparents by himself. Now mother has returned to find everything she remembered gone, and that’s Gamlen’s fault. There’s a lot of room for hurt and resentment there. And there were over twenty years for that anger to fester. Now it’s all coming out like water boiling over in a pot. But once it’s out…”

She handed Hawke’s leather tunic back. The hole in the side was carefully mended, Hawke’s clumsy, too-big stitches replaced by Bethany’s smaller, neater, uniform ones. She had always had their mother’s patience, except for when Leandra lost it (though Bethany could never afford to lose her temper the way their mundane mother might).

Bethany smiled brightly. “They can begin to mend.”

_Month Three_

The door to the Hawke childrens’ shared bedroom burst open.

“Get the hell up!” Carver yelled.

Hawke, fresh off an overnight job with Aveline that ended in an alley fight that included a couple of cracked skulls, broken bones, and enough bumps and bruises to keep them both purple for a week, only mustered the energy to turn her head to the side. If she moved any more, her right shoulder blade would scream its reminder that she had, indeed, taken a mace to the back, and it did, indeed, still hurt like a bitch. “Hrnh?”

“I can’t find Bethany,” Carver said. “She said she was going to the marketplace, but - Maker, what did you do to yourself?”

“I thought I’d try a stone massage,” Hawke snarked half-heartedly. Carver squatted beside her bed, carefully eyeing the bruise. Using a bit of mirror work in Athenril’s headquarters, Aveline had shown Hawke the swollen, red-and-purple lump the size of a fist that had taken up residence on her back. Then Carver’s words sank through her beaten skull. “What’s this about Bethany? She went alone?”

“Said she needed some air,” Carver said. “And it’s the middle of the day, she said she’d be only a half hour. It’s coming up on an hour now.”

“Shit,” Hawke said, forcing her sore arms to move and sit up. Her shoulder protested and she grit her teeth, working through the pain. Carver helped her into a sitting position. “Get me my sword and shield.”

“Should you be carrying?” With one hand, Carver passed his sister her shortsword, laying it across her lap. With the other, he gently probed at the lump. It was a testament to the injury’s inflammation that Carver’s hands, normally too-warm and sweaty, felt cool on her back. “I’ll bring Tiny, see if he can pick up her scent.”

“I’ll put it on my hip,” Hawke said, standing up. “And it’s Elfroot. Its flowers have some scent she likes. C’mon, let’s go.”

“Done,” Carver said, already returning to his full height and going to the door. “Pull up your shirt, though, so you don’t give the rest of Lowtown an eyeful.”

Hawke looked down, saw the way her linen undershirt had fallen dangerously low over her cleavage. Rolling her eyes, she yanked the collar up and followed after Carver.

Their first stop was Lowtown’s marketplace. While it was by no means the largest in the city, it was larger than Lothering’s central, open-air market. Fortunately, as she and Carver made their way past bakers, produce-sellers, butchers, armorers, and weaponsmiths, she heard no gossip or chatter about an apostate mage being dragged to the Gallows by the Templars. That observation made the knot in the pit of Hawke’s stomach ease slightly.

“It’ll take us nearly an hour to go through everything,” Hawke said. “Maybe she got sidetracked?”

“Maybe,” Carver said, unconvinced. “But if she was out here, we’d see her. No, thank you,” he said politely to a farmer trying to offer them a half-bushel of corn for five coppers.

“True,” Hawke agreed uneasily. “What does your Twin Telepathy tell you?”

“It’s not _telepathy_ ,” Carver said. “I can’t read her mind or, I don’t know, follow some mystery trail to find her. How’s your back?”

“It feels like shit. Thanks for reminding me,” Hawke replied. “Should we start knocking on doors?”

“I’ve been thinking that. But I don’t want to draw attention to her,” Carver said.

Hawke was going to offer another option, but her attention was caught by a small, grubby hand snatching the hem of her shirt. She stopped, peering down at the child - a girl of seven or eight, eyes wide and dirty cheeks hollowed by hunger.

“Spare a copper, miss?” She asked. Her high voice and Ferelden accent rang like a bell in the din of the market. She nodded to the shadows were a sickly-looking, gaunt woman with a rounded stomach was sitting, thin fingers working over a patch job. “My ma is too sick to go to the mines.”

Hawke exchanged a look with her brother, and he nodded to her. When moved forward, Hawke knelt to the little girl’s level to pull out her coin purse. Pay with Athenril’s group was meager, seeing that they were paying off their massive debts, but they were welcome to take any spoils they came across on the job. Carefully, she picked out five spare coppers and a silver. “Here you are. Get yourself and your mother some food.”

“Thank you,” The girl said. Shyly, she peeked around Hawke’s shoulder. “I like your mabari.”

“Yeah?” Hawke asked, clicking her tongue at Tiny. “I bet he’d like you.”

At her click, Tiny shuffled forward, sniffling loudly at the hand the girl held out to him. She started giggling when he started licking at her fingers and burrowed into her hand when she tentatively rubbed at the top of Tiny’s massive head. About then was when Carver returned, holding two loaves of a thick, hearty bread and a glass milk jug.

“It’s not much,” he said, stepping into the shadows and presenting the food to the woman, “But it’s all we can do for now.”

“Maker Bless you, child,” The Ferelden woman said, voice wobbly with tears. “Lillith, my dear, come eat.”

“Thank you,” Lillith said, and she ran back to her mother. Hawke peered up at her brother, walking back down the street.

“You couldn’t afford that,” She told him. Carver smirked down at her.

“You couldn’t afford it, either.”

Hawke hummed noncommittally and, ignoring the way her back protested, reached to wrap an arm around Carver’s sturdy waist. “So now we’ve lost our sister and about two silver.”

“Three. I sprang for jam.”

“You wouldn’t even spring for jam for _me_.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” Carver said agreeably. He produced a small glass jar from his pocket, perhaps two ounces large. “But I would for Bethany.”

“Prig,” Hawke said lightly.

“If we don’t find her soon, I’m going to put it in her hair for making us worry,” Carver said stonily. “Where she could have…” He stopped, mouth falling shut and feet freezing. Hawke’s shoulder jerked and she grunted in pain. “Oh, we really are two dumb blokes with swords, aren’t we?”

“Yes, but I didn’t need the reminder,” Hawke said grumpily. “Why?”

“Well,” Carver said, turning around. “We know our sister. Where would bleeding-heart Bethany go with this much suffering in this city?”

“Probably not the _best_ way to refer to our sister,” Hawke hissed as she followed him. Carver returned to the nook where the Ferelden woman was waiting with her daughter.

“Excuse me, elder?” Carver asked, kneeling down. “May I trouble you for another minute of your time?”

“Yes, dearie, and you may call me Celia,” The woman said. “Thank you again for your kindness.”

“Of course,” Hawke said, still unclear what the purpose of this exercise of her brother’s was.

“Where might a person go if they wanted to do more to help refugees here in this city?” Carver asked.

Celia beamed. “You’re such a nice young man. There’s not much, you know, so we have to look out for ourselves. There’s an older woman, Lirene, who keeps a shop. She’s a Kirkwall local, but her family is from Ferelden originally. She helps with food drives, clothes, and medical care.”

“She sounds amazing,” Hawke said, picking up on Carver’s track here. “Where could we find her?”

Celia gave them directions to Lirene’s Ferelden Imports, and the Hawke siblings left immediately. Hawke pulled Carver’s ear as means of telling him well done. He tugged her hair as a thank-you.

The shop, funnily enough, was less than five minutes from where Celia was sitting. The outside was full of refugees loitering, calling out their various skill sets and the low pay they would accept for odd jobs to whoever was passing by. The inside was even more crowded, and the influx of refugees meant that the space was serving less as a shop and more as an unemployment line. At the head of the line, a harried-looking woman with thick, dark hair glanced up at them.

“Fereldens? Back of the line and I’ll get to you when I can. If you’ve coin to spare, the collection box is there, and I’ve a few items for sale -”

“We’re here to volunteer, ma’am,” Hawke spoke over her, calling across the din. Lirene blinked, surprised.

“Well, thank the Maker for that, there were just some injuries from the mines brought in, and my volunteers are just about at their wits’ end. Through this door,” She said, pointing to a side door to her left. Hawke and Carver followed her directions and stepped into a second, even larger room. Four cots lined the two long walls, each full, and the front end offered seating to those whose wounds could wait. The back end hosted a potions station and a sparsely-stocked shelf of bandages and herbal materials.

“Oh! Fancy seeing you here!”

And there was Bethany, in the midst of it all, dark hair pulled up into a messy bun and blood streaking her arms and cheek. With the businesslike air of a woman who had no idea how she’d terrified her siblings all morning, she said, “We need a few extra hands. Sister, if you could take care of that gentleman in that bed there, he’s just got a gash that needs a touch of Elfroot and some bandages and he’ll be fine, and Carver, come here and help me set this bone, I’m sorry sweetheart, this is going to hurt but then you’ll be just fine -”

“I’m going to kill her,” Hawke said to Carver, already rolling up her sleeves. “I swear, Carver, I’m going to do it.”

“I’m right behind you,” Carver said, going to the basin to begin to wash his hands. “How’s the shoulder?”

“Fucking horrific, now stop _reminding me_.”

_Month Six_

“To the docks, mules of mine,” Athenril said, indicating the crate on her desk.

“Touch on the nose, isn’t it?” Hawke asked sardonically. Athenril smirked.

“Considering I essentially own you, I can be as on the nose as I want,” Athenril said. Then she wrinkled her nose, fine features twisting. “Ugh. Poor word choice. Ignore that.”

“Is that the assignment, then?” Aveline asked. “Transport?”

“Transport and security,” Athenril confirmed.

“What’s in the crate?” Carver asked, leaning over to pick up the box. He hefted in experimentally, biceps flexing like he was trying to impress someone.

“Not part of the job,” Athenril said smoothly. “Take the crate to the docks and leave it at drop point E.”

“That the one under the harbormaster’s desk?” Carver asked.

“No, dunce, it’s the Antivan dock,” Hawke said.

“No, I think it’s the doorstep of Woodrow’s Storehouse,” Bethany interrupted.

“It’s the alley behind Smetty’s Fish Guttery and you’re all wrong,” Aveline said with such an air of finality that the other three stopped. Athenril laughed.

“Aveline, you could have a future in this business if you wanted.”

“Thank you,” Aveline said with a smile that made it very clear that she did _not_ want that. “Drop point time?”

“Before midnight,” Athenril said, and she nodded to the door in dismissal. Carver made himself a useful fool and lifted the crate, following his sisters and Aveline into the evening air. Night had fallen an hour before, and the day was at last cool enough that Hawke did not immediately break into a sweat when she stepped out the door.

“What do you think is in there?” Hawke asked.

“It’s lyrium,” Bethany said immediately. At her stare, Bethany shrugged on shoulder. “I...can feel it.”

Carver put the crate down and cracked the lid, pulling out a spherical bottle full of a deep blue, thickly sloshing potion. He uncorked it and took a whiff. “Phew. Yeah, that’s lyrium.”

Hawke lightly slapped the back of his head. “Now the goods are contaminated, you fool.”

“ _The goods are contaminated_ ,” Carver mocked, his voice pitched high. “Like you care.”

Hawke _didn’t_ care, but she also just wanted to get this relatively simple job done with so they could get some pay and go home. She wanted to keep their less-than-legal work on the down-low because the longer they were here, the more she heard ( _mages taken in chains, the chill of the gallows, the distrust, the discrimination, the fear, the whispers of Tranquliity, Tranquility, Tranquility)._

“Let’s just go,” She said. Carver caught her drift and returned the sealed bottle to the box. Their group made their way through Lowtown’s streets, heading down to the docks. The scent of unwashed bodies melded into the salty sea air. Their trek was quiet, and Hawke really thought that they were going to have a simple, quiet evening. She really did.

But then they set down the crate, nestled inconspicuously under a dusty tarp, and Aveline’s head perked up. Her eyes narrowed, scanning their surroundings.

“Please, no,” Hawke said, returning to her full height.

“I heard something,” Aveline said tersely. She drew her sword and shield, stance at the ready.

“Maybe it was a cat,” Hawke said wearily. Nevertheless, she followed suit, drawing her weapons. “Though I’m not sure -”

“Coterie!” Bethany hissed. She planted her staff, energy crackling up the wooden stake and enveloping her body in a translucent purple shield. With a yell, Aveline and Carver rushed forward, Carver cutting large swaths in the approaching rival smuggling group and Aveline covering his back. Of the dozen or so Coterie thugs in this ambush, half of them remained with their two advanced fighters and the other half dodged around them to charge towards Hawke and Bethany.

Hawke grit her teeth, adjusting her grip on her sword and launching herself towards the advancing party. With her shortsword, she lacked the wide reach of Carver and his massive two-handed weapon, but she made use of her superior sword handling and dexterity and dispatched the Coterie attackers. Bethany covered her back as she sent well-aimed fireballs at the thugs who tried to slip past her defenses. The scents of singed flesh and blackened blood stung Hawke’s nose. Twisting her sword in one hand, she struck her attacker with the pommel of her sword. The Coterie agent swayed, and Hawke knocked him unconscious with a well-aimed fist to his jaw.

From behind, Hawke heard an anguished cry of pain; she spun to find Bethany surrounded on both sides by thugs. With a grunt, Bethany planted her foot and a ring of fire exploded from above them, raining flames onto her attackers and sending them flying back. Hawke used her shield to bash down the one who was soaring towards her; Bethany swung her staff and with an audible crack smashed its crystalline orb into the second assailant’s head.

Silence fell over the alleyway. Hawke was about to crack a joke about Bethany’s final swing being overkill, but then she saw how her sister’s skin had gone pallid, almost gray; her legs trembled and Hawke ran forward to support her when she tumbled to the ground.

“Bethany?” Carver called distantly. His voice was louder when he called a second time, accompanied by his loud footsteps as he ran to them. “Bethany, are you -?”

“I’m fine, Carver,” Bethany said. She cracked open her eyes and smiled faintly at her sister. “That was new.”

Hawke laughed softly. “It was, wasn’t it? It was neat, though.”

“Yeah,” Bethany agreed. “But I think it was a bit too much for my current skills.”

“Here.” Carver knelt down, hands fumbling at his side pack and producing a small blue vial. He uncorked the lyrium potion and gently tilted it against Bethany’s lips. She sputtered slightly before she drank it down.

“I can _drink_ , Carver,” She protested, weakly waving him away. Already the color was returning to her face. “I used too much of my mana. I’m not _dying_.”

“You carry around extra lyrium potions?” Hawke asked. Carver snorted.

“You don’t?”

“Of course I do,” Hawke said, nettled. As if she would ever go anywhere without spare lyrium potions lest this exact situation occurred. She supported Bethany as she made to stand. “Shall we?”

Bethany was aided to her feet and supported by Carver as they started to make their way back to Gamlen’s house. Aveline reached down to help Hawke stand as well. Aveline hung back for a few extra moments, looking hesitant. Hawke took her cue and waited until Bethany and Carver got out of earshot.

“Just so you know,” Aveline said, voice low. “I carry extra lyrium, as well. If you ever need it.”

For a moment, Hawke was struck speechless by Aveline’s consideration. Then she hugged her, once, tightly.

“C’mon, I’ll buy you a pint,” Hawke told her.

_Month Nine_

The was one thing Hawke liked about her new life in Kirkwall: the local hole-in-the-wall pub of Lowtown, the Hanged Man. It was akin to the relationship one formed with a wart, she thought: one day it all was smooth, then there was a bump between your toes and you had named it _Gerald._

(“What the _fuck_ are you talking about, Hawke?” Aveline asked.

“You said you’d never tell anyone that,” Carver said stonily, slamming down four frothing mugs of beer over Bethany’s roaring laughter. “I was _four_.”)

The place was even more crowded than usual when Hawke, her siblings, and Aveline stepped through the door, shaking off the evening’s light rain. They soon saw why: sitting in the place of honor in front of the fireplace were two dwarves, neither of which Hawke had ever seen before. Both were stocky, well-built, and blond, with strong features and fine clothes. One wore his beard in an elaborate series of braids and twists; the other was clean-shaven, hair pulled into a low ponytail and his vest open, almost scandalously unbuttoned, over his muscular chest.

“Corff!” Carver called, flagging down the bartender.

“I’ve other customers, Carver, I’ll get there when I get there,” Corff said as he walked past, lightly smacking Carver’s hand out of the way.

“Really?” Carver said. Hawke rolled her eyes.

“You suck. Let me give it a try.” She pushed past Carver to take his space at the bar. “Hey, Corff! I’ve got a new one for you! What hangs at a man’s thigh and wants to poke the hole it’s poked before?”

“A key, Hawke the Elder, and you won’t get any special treatment. Stop distracting me,” Corff said, filling a platter of ales and placing them onto a waiting tray. With a sigh, Hawke stepped back.

“I tried.”

“You both are pathetic,” Bethany said. “Stand back.”

She reached up, combing her fingers through her hair so the dark waves fanned out over her shoulders. Then she stepped up to the bar, folding her arms under her chest to bolster her already well-supported cleavage. When she caught Corff’s eye, she sent him a brilliant smile and a little wave.

Corff immediately stepped over to her. “What’ll it be today, Bethany? The usual?”

“You know what I like,” Bethany said brightly. Corff’s ears went red as he filled a tray of tankards with ale and passed it to her.

“Uh, you know, Bethany -”

“Thank you! You’re so sweet,” Bethany said, taking the mugs in her hands and stepping away from the bar. “Keep the tab open.”

She returned to her siblings and Aveline, primly handing each their own tankard.

“Impressive,” Aveline said with a smirk.

“Show-off,” Hawke grumbled.

“I feel like I can’t drink this now,” Carver sighed, drinking deeply from his mug nevertheless. Hawke shook her head; if she’d had the attributes necessary, she would have used her cleavage to get faster bar service, too. But alas, spending her formative years with a sword in her hand had not supported much growth in that area.

“What’s the big to-do over there?” She asked, nodding towards the dwarves sitting around the fire.

“Bartrand and Varric Tethras, of House Tethras and the Dwarven Merchants’ Guild,” Aveline said. “I heard a few miners talking while you three were making fools of yourselves for some of this horrific ale.”

“It’s an acquired taste,” Hawke explained. Aveline raised a brow.

“Is it?” She asked. “Well, I refuse to acquire it.”

“You’re still drinking it,” Carver pointed out.

“Yes, well, none of us are so well off in this business we’ll turn down some free alcohol,” Aveline said.

“Who said it’s free?” Carver asked. At Aveline’s knowing smirk, he grimaced. “Well, cheers to Corff’s generosity.”

“I don’t think that’s what it is,” Hawke said.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Bethany interrupted. “What’s so fancy about them they’ve got the whole bar talking?”

“Something about wanting to form an expedition to the Deep Roads,” Aveline said.

“Really?” Hawke asked, interest suddenly piqued. She looked over at the dwarves.

“A fool’s errand, if you ask me,” Aveline said. “Miles and miles of abandoned tunnels underground, stuffed to the brim with Darkspawn? I think not.”

“That’s what makes it interesting,” Hawke said. Already her mind was filing with the idea of _adventure_ , something greater than this one-hill city, something more than running crates of lyrium and knives and Orlesian wines to and from the docks. Somewhere that wasn’t dirty, dusty Lowtown or Gamlen’s house with the holes in the roof she and Carver couldn’t seem to properly seal. Some way she could get her mother out of this place and into the home she deserved.

“The Deep Roads would be one hell of a change of pace,” Carver said dreamily. “Glory and gold and guts -”

“And darkspawn,” Aveline said, her voice cutting. A very awkward silence fell over the table. Aveline was looking down into her mug, clutching the sticky glass in both hands. Her knuckles were pale under her freckled fingers.

Carver gently tapped the back of Aveline’s wrist. “I’m sorry.”

“I know,” She said shortly. She took another gulp of her ale. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to snap. I’m not fit for company. I think I’ll go home.”

“Want someone to walk you?” Hawke asked. Aveline smiled at her, a wobbly thing.

“I’m only a few streets away, Hawke.” Aveline’s apartment was in a run-down building squarely between Lowtown and Darktown. It wasn’t an unsafe place to live, but it was certainly better than it used to be since Aveline had taken up residence in the building. “I’ll manage.” She squeezed Hawke’s wrist once and left.

Hawke frowned at her brother. “Well done.”

“I didn’t - !” Carver grimaced. “Yeah, I feel like an ass. I’ll apologize to her later.”

Hawke hopped back up into her chair. “Still. The Deep Roads. Should we talk to them?”

“The Roads aren’t living things. They’re tunnels.”

“Shut _up_ , I meant the brothers. Introduce ourselves,” Hawke said.

“It’ll have to wait,” Bethany said.

“Wait? I’m still sober. Mostly. C’mon, let’s introduce them to the Wonder Hawkes -”

“No, we will not be called that, and it’s because they’re just leaving,” Bethany said, nodding to the door. Hawke spun, watching the two dwarves step out the Hanged Man’s door and into the night.

“Shit!” Hawke cried. “Shit, shit, there goes our chance.” She put her elbow on the table. “Back to square one, I guess.”

“Sorry, sis,” Bethany said. She drummed her fingertips over the back of her sister’s hand. “Want me to charm some snacks out of the bartender?”

“No, that’s fine,” Hawke said over Carver gagging loudly on his ale. “We’ll come up with something. We’ve done it so far.”

_Month Twelve_

“What do you think you’re going to do once all of this is done?” Hawke asked. She leaned back onto her elbows, eyes staring out into the ocean’s gently rolling waves. This was a simple transport and security job, taking a cask of Chasind Sack Mead to the Wounded Coast to await pickup. Hawke had considered taking a small sample of the stuff, but just uncorking the bottle and sniffing gave her a contact buzz and she’d decided not to risk it. Aveline finished stoking the fire to keep their spot lit and warm.

“I’m thinking of applying to the city guard,” Aveline said. At Hawke’s shocked expression, she laughed aloud. “What? Think I was going to tag along on all your quests forever?”

“Of course not!” Hawke protested. “My only thought was, well, _this_ -” She pointed to the locked case. “-doesn’t scream ‘city guard’ to me.”

“Well, I’ve had to do what I’ve had to do, Hawke,” Aveline said. She lounged back onto her elbows. “But I’ve made the work quick and clean and kept my head down. No waves. Yet,” She added, winking at Hawke. “What about you, hm? What comes after this?”

Hawke did not reply immediately. There were only three weeks left in her year of indentured servitude to Athenril’s gang. The Hawke children had made their names in the criminal underworld of Kirkwall, keeping their smuggling ring afloat while the Coterie crept closer and closer to their turf. The Hawkes were slowly becoming a familiar name on the Lowtown streets. They had a place in Athenril’s crew if they wanted it, Hawke was positive. But she didn’t want it.

She was fairly sure none of them did. The work was seedier than any of them really preferred, what with Bethany’s morality and Hawke’s and Carver’s experience in the army. Bethany would do well for herself if she joined an apothecary and kept helping out at Lirene’s as she did; Carver would tag along to help her, and he could use the structure offered by a stint in the city guard. Hawke knew she would, too.

But she also knew how she would chafe against the rules and regulations of the guard now. She had spent too much time working in the city’s underbelly, making her own decisions on the fly with nothing but the need for secrecy and her father’s lessons to guide her ( _Don’t kill when you can incapacitate; don’t incapacitate when you can placate. Don’t follow the orders of authority for authority’s sake; listen to your common sense, too. You chose to wield the sword and shield - the power is in the sword, but the stance is in the shield. May your heart be as strong a foundation as your feet._ ).

If anything, it was the expedition into the Deep Roads House Tethras was putting on that caught her attention the most. She knew it was foolish and dangerous; knew that, for all her half-earned street notoriety, she was little more than a snotty, Ferelden, upstart mercenary who bought her way into the city to the citizens of Kirkwall. But there was something about the lure of adventure that made her feel like she had found some sort of direction to go in for the first time since they had come to Kirkwall.

“I hadn’t anticipated it being such a challenge,” Aveline’s warm voice interrupted her thoughts. She sighed, looking up at the stars. “Still caught on that Deep Roads expedition?”

“Yes,” Hawke admitted. “I know it’s a terrible idea.”

“Well, as long as you do,” Aveline agreed. “Just don’t ask me to come with you, Hawke.”

Even Aveline had taken to referring to the oldest sibling as _Hawke_. What had started as a general shorthand used among Athenril’s smugglers to separate the siblings had become a nickname for the eldest. Now most everyone referred to her as _Hawke_ , and her siblings either by their first names or _the Hawke twins_. Carver had disliked the name initially, but Hawke suspected that was more because “the Hawke twins” still brought attention to Bethany.

Hawke barked out a laugh. “I wouldn’t. I know you’d say no.”

“No, it’s because I would say yes,” Aveline said. Hawke wanted to make a joke, but Aveline was deadly serious as she met Hawke’s gaze.

“Aveline,” Hawke said. “But -”

“Your family took me in when we came over from Ferelden,” Aveline interrupted. “My mother...well. I never got to know her. My father didn’t live to see the Blight. You didn’t have to bring me with you to Kirkwall, or even out of the Wilds, but you did. It may be presumptuous of me, but you are my family now. And there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for my family.”

“It’s not presumptuous,” Hawke said. A lump was rising in her throat and her eyes were stinging. She wiped them and tried not to make a poorly-timed joke about getting smoke in her eyes. “You’re my best friend. My only friend, really, aside from my siblings. And I think you’re my mother’s favorite child regardless of blood.”

Aveline laughed. “I’m glad to hear it.” She trailed off, looking into the fire. “It’s been a year. It feels like no time has passed, but also like it’s been so much longer.”

“Yes,” Hawke agreed. She studied Aveline from the corner of her eye. “It has been a year. How do you feel?”

Aveline looked at her sharply. Then she hefted out a sigh. “It feels strange. Some days I still can’t believe it - I don’t want to get out of bed from the survivor’s guilt. I’ll get nightmares, or the guilt of taking off my ring makes me feel sick. Other days I remind myself that I’m here, I’m alive, and that’s not a crime. It’s not a punishment from the Maker. It just is, and it’s up to me to decide what to do with that.” She shrugged one shoulder half-heartedly. “Most days I just push it to the back of my mind, or it doesn’t come up altogether. It’s...liberating. And heartbreaking. I never wanted to live without him, but now I’ve had to. And I’m fine.” Aveline reached up, leather gloves streaking dirt and tear tracks over her cheeks. “That’s the worst part. And the best.”

“He was a good man,” Hawke said, somewhat awkwardly. She had known him, at most, for a few hours. Aveline smirked.

“He was. No need to sound so unsure.”

“Sorry,” Hawke said, and Aveline laughed.

“You haven’t gotten out of telling me what’s the plan after this is all over.”

“Yeah,” Hawke said distantly. She reached into her pocket to find her father’s coin and pulled it out. It glimmered in the firelight as she turned it over and over and over in her hands. “I’ll let you know what I decide.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i borrowed hawke's terrible joke from this web page: https://historyhustle.com/7-ancient-dirty-jokes-that-are-still-hilarious-and-inappropriate/

**Author's Note:**

> *Ben Wyatt voice* it's about the _validation_. hmu if people want more of this.


End file.
